


the only one i want

by artenon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Other, Post-Canon, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artenon/pseuds/artenon
Summary: Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for a moment. This is usually the part where he withdraws his arm. Instead, his fingers flutter at Crowley’s waist, a split-second pressure that’s gone as fast as it is light. He doesn’t remove his hand. “Why did you sit up?”Crowley wasn’t expecting that question. He stutters unintelligibly for a moment, trying to figure out how to askWas I not supposed to?without, you know, actually saying that.(Or: Crowley constantly overthinks, and Aziraphale finally puts his foot down.)





	the only one i want

**Author's Note:**

> yes, it's another kink meme fill. i really thought this would be a short n' fast one, but i just can't stop writing 4k fics it seems! view the full prompt [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1111656#cmt1111656)

Aziraphale hardly sits in his armchair anymore.

At least, he doesn’t while Crowley’s over; obviously, Crowley can’t know about Aziraphale’s sitting habits when he’s not there. For all he knows, Aziraphale could have suddenly decided that his sofa is more comfortable than the armchair he’s been favoring for the past two centuries and has abandoned the thing entirely.

That’s a stretch even to Crowley’s skeptical mind, which only reluctantly accepts the conclusion that Aziraphale must be sitting on the sofa because he wants to be closer to Crowley.

It’s not just that they sit closer: when they’re next to each other like this, Aziraphale has also taken to wrapping his arm around Crowley’s waist. The first time he’d done it, Crowley had been frozen stiff, unsure what was happening and terrified he might do something to cause it to stop. It’s a regular enough occurrence now that he molds himself into Aziraphale’s side comfortably, cheek resting on his shoulder.

Aziraphale is warm. Soft. Very nice to snuggle with. Curling up against him makes sleep a very enticing option, but Crowley bites the inside of his cheek whenever he feels his mind drifting towards unconsciousness. He catalogues sensations instead: the slight itch of the worn cardigan his cheek is pressed against, the subtle notes of Aziraphale’s cologne, the steady in-and-out of breaths—their conversation dipped into a lull a while ago, but Crowley is more than happy to just stay close and quiet together like this and Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind for now.

Sometimes Crowley really thinks he could stay like this forever. Or at least a very, very long time. Longer than Aziraphale would allow, surely. Aziraphale always has things he’d rather be doing, usually involving books.

Aziraphale is still Crowley’s to hold in this moment, though. Crowley shuts his eyes and matches his breathing to Aziraphale’s. He counts each one.

It’s a familiar feeling, standing at this precipice, senses strained for the slightest change in wind.

Aziraphale shifts his shoulders; Crowley notes it instantly. He detaches himself, sitting upright and putting what space he can between them with Aziraphale’s arm still around him.

“Dear?” Aziraphale says.

“Hm?” Crowley dumps all of his practiced nonchalance into the brief sound.

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for a moment. This is usually the part where he withdraws his arm. Instead, his fingers flutter at Crowley’s waist, a split-second pressure that’s gone as fast as it is light. He doesn’t remove his hand. “Why did you sit up?”

Crowley wasn’t expecting that question. He stutters unintelligibly for a moment, trying to figure out how to ask _Was I not supposed to?_ without, you know, actually saying that.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says slowly, like he’s picking his words carefully, “it’s getting late.”

Right. Time for him to go. _That_ Crowley gets. He’s been complying with Aziraphale’s circuitous methods of kicking him out since the bookshop opened; he knows how this works.

Crowley slings himself off the couch. “Yep,” he says. He grabs his shades from the coffee table and slips them on; unfortunate that he has to take them off at all, but they’re not very conducive to snuggling. “I’m heading off, then.”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay?” Aziraphale says.

Another unexpected question. Crowley nearly faceplants spinning around to look at Aziraphale only to find his face a controlled blank. That’s not, on the whole, unheard of. Crowley has witnessed Aziraphale’s closed-off expression directed at customers in his shop, rude humans, and other celestial beings. Rarely at him, though. Crowley’s never known if it was deliberate on Aziraphale’s part, but he hardly ever guards his emotions around Crowley, instead lets them spill plainly across his features.

And now Crowley is wrong-footed, because he relies on that. Aziraphale takes time to say what he means, and it’s all around easier when whatever Aziraphale doesn’t say, Crowley can read it on his face. It’s how he originally picked up, decades ago, that Aziraphale was hinting that he’d like Crowley to leave when he said he had some work to do, and wasn’t it getting late? And that’s just one example of many.

Now Aziraphale leaves no clues in his expression. Crowley narrows his eyes at him, trying to decipher it anyway, to interpret _Wouldn’t you rather stay?_ Yes, of course Crowley would rather stay, _always_, but what does _Aziraphale_ want?

“Nah,” he says eventually, erring on the side of caution. “Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

Crowley figures that’ll be it and now he’ll leave, but Aziraphale stands and says, “In the way of what?”

_Really, you couldn’t have just said ‘no’ and left it at that? _Crowley berates himself. Aloud he says, “What?”

“You said you don’t want to get in my way. What, precisely, would you be getting in the way of?”

Crowley shrugs expansively. “I don’t know. Reading or restoring books or whatever it is you get up to.”

Aziraphale’s jaw tenses, a barely-there gesture that Crowley’s brain jumps into overdrive attempting to parse.

“And why do you think you’d be in my way?”

Crowley opens his mouth. Shuts it again. “Now you’re the one wasting time,” he manages. “I’m leaving.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sharply, and Crowley flinches and halts mid-turn.

He doesn’t quite turn back, though.

“What.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, gently this time. “I’ve noticed—”

In the space between one word and the next, Crowley’s world tumbles like the inside of a snow globe. _What_, his mind demands of himself, running over the past hours, days, weeks, every word and grunt and gesture, _did you do wrong? _His stomach coils like a tightly wound serpent; his mind is a blank rush of white noise; he could scream or puke or cry.

“—you’ve been acting odd,” Aziraphale says. “And I think I finally know why.”

Crowley grits his teeth. “Dunno what you’re talking about, angel. I’m fine.”

“Have you noticed that, unless I’m extending the invitation, we see each other in monthly intervals? Precisely one month, like clockwork.”

This is true. Crowley took Aziraphale out to dinner tonight, exactly one month since the last time they went out together. He thought it was a safe frequency, since they’d gone out about as often during their time at the Dowlings’. If Aziraphale invited him out sooner—if there was some new restaurant he wanted to try or an art exhibit he wanted to see—Crowley would reset his countdown from the new date; better safe than sorry.

He never thought Aziraphale would pay enough attention to notice, let alone call him out on it.

“Really?” Crowley says. His heart pounds too hard, too fast. “Fascinating. You can tell me all about it next time.”

He makes again to leave, but this time Aziraphale’s hand closes around his arm. Crowley swallows and clamps down on the part of him that wants to throw himself against Aziraphale and seek that touch with his entire body.

“You never touch me first,” Aziraphale says. “You always wait for me to touch you first. Every time.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Crowley says.

“I’m not.”

“You can’t possibly remember—”

“I do,” Aziraphale says. “Believe me, I am _very_ aware of every instance of contact between us. And ever since—ever since the day we faced Heaven and Hell, you’ve never touched me first.”

His voice is quiet but hard with conviction, and Crowley swallows. He believes Aziraphale, but he can’t comprehend the truth of it. Why would Aziraphale pay such attention to their touches? Crowley pays attention, of course: he hoards the sensations, tucks them deep inside him, memories he can always keep in case one day he does fuck up and send Aziraphale running. But what reason should Aziraphale have?

“At the Ritz that day,” Aziraphale continues, his voice softening, “I put my hand on the table. You didn’t take it. But when I took _your _hand, you—well, you smiled. You were happy.”

Even knowing he has his sunglasses as a barrier, Crowley doesn’t want to look at Aziraphale. “You’re reading too much into things.”

“I did think that,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t anymore.” He squeezes Crowley’s arm. “Come upstairs. I have a bed—which you would know if you ever stayed long enough for me to invite you up. We can lie down, and we can talk.”

Aziraphale tugs; Crowley plants his feet more firmly to the floor, but he also drops the pretense that he doesn’t know what Aziraphale is getting at.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You have to,” Aziraphale says, and he’s pleading, almost. “We have to.”

“No, Aziraphale.” Crowley is almost pleading himself. He exhales harshly, trying to push out the awful spinning feeling inside him, but no dice. “I _really_. Don’t. Want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

_Because there’s no way it’ll end well_, except Crowley still has enough dignity not to say _that_ out loud. He says nothing instead.

“I’m not letting you run away from this conversation, Crowley.”

“Fine,” Crowley snaps. “Fine, we’ll—nnh—_talk about it_. But we don’t need to go upstairs to do it.”

Aziraphale sighs. He drops his hand, finally, and Crowley suppresses a shudder at the loss of contact, unsure if he’s relieved or disappointed. “Will you look at me, at least?”

Crowley swivels on his heels. Aziraphale has opened his expression to him again: his eyes are wide and earnest, his brow creased in concern. He lifts a hand and almost makes it to Crowley’s face before letting it drop back to his side, and the aborted gesture makes Crowley’s stomach twist.

“So.” Crowley crosses his arms and tries not to feel terrified about the fact that he has no idea what sort of accusations Aziraphale is about to level against him. “Talk.”

Aziraphale nods. “At first I thought perhaps you still felt a need to be cautious, even after everything.”

Not too far off; Crowley is cautious, but not for fear of Heaven or Hell.

“I could understand that,” Aziraphale continues, “except I don’t think that’s the case, is it? Then I had to wonder if, perhaps, our desires were unaligned. Perhaps you weren’t looking for the same things as me, perhaps you didn’t particularly want more physical closeness, or to spend more time together.”

And _that’s_ absurd enough that Crowley almost laughs. _No, _he thinks, _no way. I want anything. Everything. Whatever you want, I want it too, and then some. I want too much, is the problem, but I’m trying to only take what you’re willing to offer._

“But that’s not true either,” Aziraphale says. “It’s not that you don’t want me. It’s that you think I don’t want you.”

Crowley opens his mouth without knowing what he’s going to say and hoping that the words will do him a favor and figure themselves out. Unfortunately, no sound escapes him, no concession, not even a stammered protest.

He forces some words out: “That’s… not… I don’t… You…”

Okay. Crowley closes his mouth.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and it’s a punch to the gut. “I _want_ to spend time with you.”

_Yeah, but not as much as I want to spend time with you. I crave more, always, always, always—_

Because the thing is. The thing _is_, even if Crowley accepts that Aziraphale likes him, loves him even, it’s just because Crowley happens to be there. Crowley is all Aziraphale’s got, now that Heaven has disowned him. Sure, fine, they’re friends, but that didn’t make Aziraphale any less ready to drop him at the Apocalypse.

Aziraphale was ready to cut his losses and fall back in line. Except by then Heaven figured out that Aziraphale had been fraternizing with a demon. So it’s Crowley’s fault. His fault that Aziraphale was forced to stand against Heaven, his fault that Aziraphale was abandoned to Earth—and yes, the angel loves Earth, but Heaven is _home_—with a demon as the only other immortal around for company.

Aziraphale’s not like Crowley, hopelessly, endlessly, all-consumingly in love. Crowley is the only one Aziraphale has; Aziraphale is the only one Crowley wants.

The thought hurts when he’s facing it head-on, and Crowley wonders how in Heaven and Hell and Earth he ever thought that this could be enough.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale looks at him beseechingly. “Will you say something?”

“You…” Crowley takes a shuddering breath. “You don’t want me like I want you.”

“I assure you, that’s not t—”

“I want you like a black hole,” Crowley says bluntly. “I want and want and want, and when I think I couldn’t possibly want any more, I do. I want you more every day. Six thousand bloody years, you’d think I’d have hit some limit by now.” He can see Aziraphale gearing up to interrupt him, and he steamrolls on. “And I love you. With every molecule of my being—and then some, because that keeps growing too, somehow, impossibly. I don’t—” He chokes, and he doesn’t cry, but he can’t quite keep the waver out of his voice when he continues. “I don’t know how I can possibly love you more than I already do, but every day I think to myself _this is it, you just can’t love more than this_, and every day I prove myself wrong.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and he’s—smiling? His eyes are dewey but he’s smiling, and his hands are clasped over his heart, and Crowley can’t stand it.

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that. You don’t want my love.”

“I want it, Crowley. I want all of it.”

“Don’t _sss_say that.” Crowley stops. Takes a deep breath. Is mindful of his tongue as he shapes his next words. “You don’t. Want my love. It’s not pretty. It’s not holy. It is ugly, and it is too much, and if you knew, if you could see… You wouldn’t want it, I know you wouldn’t.”

Aziraphale touches his cheek and Crowley, unprepared for the contact, flinches back. Aziraphale drops his hand, hurt and concern plain on his face, and Crowley realizes that he’s too far in his head. He can’t focus on Aziraphale enough to figure out what he should say, what Aziraphale wants to hear. It’s a dangerous place to be.

“I—I’m going.”

He manages to take half a step back before Aziraphale lunges forward and snatches him into an aggressive embrace.

“Dear,” Aziraphale says quietly, breath brushing his ear, “I would very much like for you to come upstairs with me right now.”

Apparently Aziraphale doesn’t plan on giving him a choice in the matter, because a short moment later and without either of them moving, they’re in what Crowley assumes to be Aziraphale’s bedroom.

Aziraphale maneuvers Crowley down onto the bed and climbs on after him. Crowley finds himself flat on his back with Aziraphale over him, thighs on either side of his, hands pinning him down by the shoulders.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Aziraphale says. “Is that okay?”

Stunned, Crowley only nods.

Aziraphale slips Crowley’s shades off and sets them aside. Then he leans down and presses his lips firmly to Crowley’s.

The kiss is sweet but unyielding. Aziraphale does not pull away when Crowley expects him to. Instead, he brings a hand to cup Crowley’s cheek and deepen the kiss. Crowley may or may not whine softly in response, fingers curling into Aziraphale’s shirt.

Aziraphale lowers himself onto Crowley, but his weight only bears on him for a moment before he rolls them both onto their sides. He sucks Crowley’s lower lip before finally breaking apart, and Crowley shudders.

Aziraphale runs a hand up and down Crowley’s arm. “I apologize, dear. I realize I often pulled away, in the past. I always believed you knew how much I cared for you, and that I simply couldn’t act because of—our circumstances. Evidently that hasn’t been the case, and I regret not making my feelings plain sooner.” He leans forward and presses their foreheads together. “I love you. I _covet_ you, Crowley. More than anything.”

Crowley’s head spins, at least partly from the unexpected bout of kissing. “Y-you’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale says, hushed. “You seem to think your desire is selfish and greedy. I assure you, there is nothing you could possibly want that I wouldn’t give. If you want more from me, I want you to take it. All of me is available to you.”

“Don’t. I can’t— I can’t do that to you.”

“Why not? What do you want, Crowley? You can tell me.”

Aziraphale’s voice is unbearably gentle, and Crowley chokes down a sob.

There is _so much_ that he wants. He reaches for the nearest.

“Hold you,” he gasps. “I just—want to hold you.”

Aziraphale pulls Crowley into his arms. Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s chest and wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s torso. Aziraphale presses kiss after kiss to the crown of Crowley’s head and rubs circles on his back, and Crowley finds the courage to tighten his arms.

“Sometimes,” Crowley says. His voice is muffled in Aziraphale’s chest, and his vision is dark. It makes the confession easier. “Sometimes I think about holding you for, for a really long time. Days, at least.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley rears back in shock. Aziraphale’s arms around him anchor him, keeping him from moving too far away. “No, not _yes_. That’s _weird_, Aziraphale!”

“For humans, maybe,” Aziraphale says. “Need I remind you we are celestial beings with bodies that don’t require the same maintenance as mortal ones?”

“Yeah, but…”

“I’m fairly certain you once accused me of _fondling_ one of my books for days on end. I wasn’t, but—”

“It was a first edition Wilde, and you so were,” Crowley says.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale says primly, “if you think me capable of that, then surely we could embrace for just as long.”

Crowley rolls onto his back, out of Aziraphale’s hold. Aziraphale lets him go, but keeps a hand on Crowley’s chest.

“You wouldn’t enjoy it, though,” Crowley says, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ll thank you not to assume anymore what I would or wouldn’t enjoy, as you’ve been grievously wrong as of late.”

Crowley makes a choked sound that’s halfway to a laugh and rolls further so that he’s on his side facing away from Aziraphale. He covers his face with his hands and digs blunt nails into his forehead. He just. Can’t _understand_ it.

“Crowley—”

Crowley pushes himself back against Aziraphale’s chest, effectively forcing them to spoon.

“Shut up,” Crowley says. “I. Ghh. Is this okay?”

“Of course, my dear.”

Aziraphale kisses the back of Crowley’s neck. His arm rests heavy on Crowley’s side, a comforting weight. Aziraphale’s hand finds Crowley’s, and tangles their fingers together.

Crowley exhales carefully. Okay, he can do this. So he was wrong about Aziraphale’s limits, but with careful testing he can figure out what they really are.

Unless… Unless Aziraphale is telling the truth, that he’s not only okay with the magnitude of Crowley’s affection, he _wants_ it.

It seems impossible, and yet…

And yet Aziraphale is here, holding him. Nuzzling the back of his neck and stroking his thumb and slotting his knees right into the space made by Crowley’s bent legs.

Crowley loves cuddling with Aziraphale, but he’s always threatened by the urge to lose himself in the gentle bliss of it. _Don’t get complacent_, he tells himself, and stays keyed in for the slightest change in Aziraphale’s voice or posture.

The warmth at his back now is no less alluring than when he was snuggled up to Aziraphale on the couch earlier. Now, for the first time, Crowley ignores the warning bells blaring in his mind and sinks into it.

It’s terrifying for the first silent minutes. Gradually, the chaos of Crowley’s mind settles into a hazy blur.

Then Aziraphale says, “You know, I do love you very much.”

“Guh,” Crowley says.

“I have for a very long time.”

“Nuh,” Crowley says.

“I can’t say exactly when,” Aziraphale continues, as if Crowley isn’t short-circuiting in his arms. “I’m afraid I realized my feelings far after the fact. If I had to guess, it was before the eighteenth century. Possibly even before the seventeenth.”

“N—wait—no,” Crowley says. “You really… you mean you really…”

Aziraphale makes a soft, wounded noise, and the instinct-driven part of Crowley yells at him to apologize immediately. The rest of him, though, is too busy grappling with the fact that Aziraphale has loved him for at least three centuries.

Crowley thought they were already cuddled as close as they could be, but Aziraphale manages to pull him in even tighter.

“I do, oh Crowley, I do,” Aziraphale says. He presses the words into Crowley’s neck alongside a string of warm kisses. “I love you very, very much.”

“But—Armageddon,” Crowley says, because he still hasn’t made sense of it.

Okay, maybe Aziraphale loved him already then, but he also still had Heaven. Given a choice between the two, Crowley doesn’t blame Aziraphale for picking Heaven.

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand. “I said many things I regret that day. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Crowley mumbles. “I just. I thought you said it was over. I thought you were reporting back to Heaven, but because of me—because they knew about me—I thought—”

Aziraphale stiffens behind him. Crowley tries to pull away, but Aziraphale presses his arm down and squeezes his hand tighter.

“Oh _no_,” Aziraphale says. His tone is tinged with horror—_what?_ “Oh, I’m so sorry, Crowley. No, I called Heaven to try and convince them we could avoid the War. When I finally realized they would never listen, the first thing I did was try to go to you. Heaven didn’t force me out; I left _them_. I know I took a rather long time about it, and I can never apologize enough, but my dear, I chose you.”

Crowley’s eyes are stinging and there’s an unbearable lump in his throat. He’s pretty sure he has Aziraphale’s hand in a death grip.

“I’ll always choose you,” Aziraphale says.

The dam breaks with a wet gasp and Crowley is crying. He cries and cries, shaking silently through the tears.

Aziraphale kisses beneath Crowley’s ear, the back of his neck, the top of his head, everywhere he can reach. In between, he whispers soothing reassurances; the exact words are lost to Crowley’s ears, but he lets the sentiment gently blanket him, too exhausted to feel mortified, as he slips into sleep.

* * *

Crowley wakes up disoriented. There’s sunlight, first of all, warming his face. That’s the first sign that something’s off: Crowley’s bedroom has blackout curtains. And his blanket isn’t this scratchy. And he’s definitely never woken up to a warm back pressed against his.

Crowley breathes slowly and hopes Aziraphale hasn’t noticed that he’s awake; he doubts Aziraphale even slept.

A muscle in Aziraphale’s back twitches—shit, caught. Crowley throws himself to the edge of the bed.

“Crowley?”

“Uh,” Crowley says. He rolls onto his back and tips his head in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale is peering at him with wide-eyed concern. His reading glasses are perched on his nose, and he has a book in his hands. “Morning, angel.”

“Why did you move?”

Oh shit.

“What?” Crowley says, in a cunning deflective maneuver.

“Just now, and yesterday on the couch, and other times I could mention.” Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside, and turns over to face Crowley properly. “You seem fine, and then all of a sudden you jerk away, like you’ve been burned. I can’t figure out why.”

“It’s nothing,” Crowley says, wincing through his own terrible lie. “It’s nothing you have to worry about.” There. Better.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sternly, and Crowley folds immediately.

“You moved,” he says. “You move and I figure you’re not comfortable anymore and I should. Get out of your way.”

“I… Just because I adjust my posture slightly doesn’t mean I want you to get away from me,” Aziraphale says.

“I’ve seen you sit and listen to entire records without so much as twitching a muscle.”

Aziraphale frowns, looking less upset and more sad. “You must know that not every little motion must have a deeper meaning.”

“I know,” Crowley says, because he _does_. In the rational part of his brain. Which he does not listen to. “I just. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Aziraphale reaches out and touches his cheek. “Oh, my dear. I know you won’t believe me yet, but it’s simply impossible for you to _mess this up_.”

He gives Crowley a kiss, soft and light. Crowley finds himself leaning after it, and Aziraphale laughs and gives him another. This time he lingers, and Crowley melts into it.

“What would you like to do today, darling?” Aziraphale asks. He takes both of Crowley’s hands in his own. “We could go to the park, or perhaps that bakery down the street, or we can simply stay in bed all day. I wouldn’t mind.”

Crowley hesitates, trying to figure out which presented (or even unnamed) option Aziraphale would like the most.

“You’re allowed to ask for what you want,” Aziraphale says. “I want you to.”

“We,” Crowley says slowly, uncertainly, “can just stay? Here? You’d be okay with it?”

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand, smiling gently. “Perfectly,” he says.

All this time Crowley thought Aziraphale would be the one overwhelmed if Crowley ever showed him just how much he wanted him, how much he loved and cared and needed to be close. Instead Crowley is the one overwhelmed with Aziraphale’s warm, warm palms pressed to his and his eyes soft and loving.

Crowley pulls his hands away, with some effort. It’s the strangest feeling, the clawing need to move closer but knowing he’ll suffocate if he does.

“Park,” he manages. “Ducks. Haven’t fed them in a while.”

Aziraphale tilts his head slightly. “That’s what you want?”

“Yes. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—” Crowley breaks off with an awkward laugh. “—it’s a bit much for me right now. I can’t—I don’t—” He stops, shakes his head. “Let’s just. Go out today. And then maybe, maybe I can stay the night again? If—”

_If that’s okay._ He knows he shouldn’t have to ask that. Aziraphale doesn’t want him to ask that. Crowley is supposed to be able to think in terms of what he wants, and not just what Aziraphale might want. It feels selfish, like Crowley should be grateful to have even a moment of Aziraphale’s time—and he knows those thoughts are poison, but he’s been settled in them for too long, and they cling.

“Apparently you’re not supposed to feed ducks bread,” Crowley says.

“Oh dear, really?” Aziraphale says, switching tracks like a champ. Crowley is extremely grateful.

“Yep. Bad for ‘em. I read that corn is good, though.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, “I’m sure we can finagle some.”

Soon enough, they’re heading for St. James’ Park. Crowley clutches a bag of corn in one hand. The other hangs at his side, occasionally tapping out an irregular beat on his thigh.

Aziraphale clears his throat.

Crowley looks to him, and Aziraphale aims a pointed glance down between them. Crowley follows his gaze to where their hands rest inches apart. Aziraphale has turned his palm out to Crowley expectantly. Crowley is confused for a moment, and then he remembers.

_You never touch me first._

Crowley swallows. He is unaccountably nervous considering that he’s about to do something that Aziraphale is all but asking him to do. He swallows again. Then he reaches out and takes Aziraphale’s hand. He laces their fingers together.

And Aziraphale beams at him, so delighted, like Crowley has gifted him a rare book, or surprised him with pastries, or miracled a stain out of his coat or his armchair. He hasn’t done any of those things, though. He’s just taken his hand.

And then Crowley has to turn his head away in case his face betrays the sudden sharp sting in his eyes, because if that’s _it_, if that’s all Aziraphale wants—if just that is enough to make Aziraphale so happy—why, then that’s enough to make a demon feel loved.

**Author's Note:**

> *pats crowley* this demon can fit so much projection in him
> 
> thanks for reading!! you can also find me on [tumblr](https://qorktrees.tumblr.com/)
> 
> edit: if you relate to crowley in this fic, please know that you are wanted and you are loved <3


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